


Impossile Delilah

by Aloysia_Virgata



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s05e12 Bad Blood, F/M, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloysia_Virgata/pseuds/Aloysia_Virgata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Bad Blood, Mulder arrives with pizza and the vampire debate continues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impossile Delilah

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Scarlet for the beta.

He shows up at her apartment with two manila envelopes full of paperwork and a pizza which is still mostly hot. She glares at him and the paperwork, but admits him on the merits of the pizza.   
  
"It's mushroom," he offers, entering her living room and crossing over to the kitchen table. He sets the envelopes down with a thump.   
  
Scully does not reply. She lifts the lid of the box and closes her eyes in appreciation as warm, tangy steam rises to meet her nose.   
  
"Pizzeria Paradiso," Mulder says hopefully. "I remembered you hate Ledo's."   
  
"Hmm," she murmurs, helping herself to a slice of his bribe.   
  
"Because you find the crust flaky. I listen when you rant."   
  
She takes a bite, chewing a moment before she swallows. "Skinner called about forty-five minutes ago. The Department of Justice is not pursuing charges. I will not be called as a witness in any investigation."   
  
Mulder's shoulders slump in relief. Then he points an accusatory finger at her. "You could have mentioned that when you called earlier."   
  
"You would have gone to Ledo's if I had. You like their ketchup-y sauce."   
  
He narrows his eyes. "This is still about that bloodsucking bucktoothed sheriff, isn't it?   
  
She blinks slowly, like a cat deciding whether destroying a silk stocking is worth the effort of getting up. "We still have expense reports to file, and even without a formal inquiry, Skinner made it abundantly clear that this afternoon's retelling was most certainly not going to pass official muster."   
  
"We were drugged!" Mulder shouts, nearly upsetting their dinner as he leaps to his feet and waves his arms. "What else does he want from us? Signed affidavits from the undead?" He paces her kitchen restlessly.   
  
"It _would_ lend your tale a certain credibility."   
  
He stops, gaping at her. "My _tale_? Scully, are you serious? You're still maintaining that they weren't vampires even after what happened with Ronnie Strickland's body?"   
  
"Mulder," she says patiently. "I can't explain to you what happened to Ronnie Strickland because I did not perform an examination. But clearly he wasn't dead. That's all that matters." She finishes her pizza and selects another piece.   
  
"They had glowing green eyes."   
  
"Well, bioluminescent organisms are not uncommon."   
  
"Humans are not bioluminescent organisms." He is beginning to look dangerous.   
  
Scully nibbles at a mushroom. "It's possible that those people shared some genetic condition where they have a symbiotic relationship with a species of bioluminescent bacteria. Symbiosis would likely convey immunity to the lipopolysaccharides found in gram-negative bacteria, which could in turn be linked to Ronnie's rapid healing. Such organisms are often saprotrophic, surviving on decaying organic matter; perhaps debriding necrotized tissue from a wound. _Vibrio fischeri_ is found in marine environments and human blood is -"   
  
She jumps when he slams his hand down on the table.   
  
"That's it," he says. "You're out of your mind. Scully, pan-cultural texts throughout time are full of stories of vampires. Not once in recorded history has anyone found a group of people with bioluminescent wound-healing bacteria living in their bloodstreams. Give it up. You sound crazier than you think I do."   
  
"Mulder, you have absolutely no idea what crazy sounds like. In fact, I'd argue that your definition of 'crazy' is along the lines of 'the kinds of explanations a rational, functional human being might come up with.'" She gets to her feet, crossing her arms. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and she is not wearing any shoes.   
  
One could easily be fooled into thinking her harmless, but he once saw a mongoose attack a cobra on Animal Planet. And, like the foolish reptile, he doesn't back down. "It's like what Potter Stewart said about pornography. I can't define it, but I know it when I see it. And you sound like a lunatic."   
  
She steps forward, pointing a finger at his chin. "Oh, I'll grant you're probably an expert on pornography, Mulder. But insanity is too close to home for you to view objectively."   
  
"I'm an expert on denial, too. You know, they covered that in a few of my psych courses at Oxford."   
  
"Physician, heal thyself," she snaps. "Or is that why you're not a Freudian? You're the Incurable Denial poster boy."   
  
In that instant he realizes that he will either have to kiss her or kill her, and he decides that he is not in the mood to drive around DC looking for a suitable place to dump a body. He looks down at the blue flames of her eyes and is not entirely certain that she won't shoot him for the trespass. But if his life is to end as a direct result of sexual activity gone awry, he prefers it be at the hands of his impossible Delilah than during an overly enthusiastic prison rape.   
  
"I'm so sick of this," she tells him, her eyes cooling from fire to ice. She draws breath to continue, but instead her mouth hangs slightly open as he takes her face in his hands.   
  
His thumbs rest in the depression below her earlobes and his fingers cradle the back of her skull. Mulder is surprised by the fragility of her jaw. He could crush it, rendering her silent that way. Instead, he leans forward, his lips slightly parted.   
  
Scully hisses and jerks back in surprise when it becomes clear that he actually plans to kiss her. "Mulder, I don't -"   
  
"Shut up," he says kindly. "For once. Just shut up."   
  
She looks stunned, but doesn't move and doesn't say anything else.   
  
Mulder feels slightly awkward with the spontaneity of the moment having been spoiled, but now firmly committed to his course of action, he dips his head forward again. He kisses her firmly on her closed mouth, the moment feeling painfully anticlimactic. She is not compliant by nature and he feels her body struggling between staying rigid and moving against him.   
  
Suddenly, her inner scales seem to tip in his favor, and her fingers are digging into the back of his neck. She rises on her toes to nip at his lower lip, and then slides her tongue into his mouth.   
  
He moves his hands over the smooth line of her neck, down her torso, and finally rests them at the narrow curve of her waist. Her raised arms have drawn her sweater up, leaving several inches of bare skin beneath his fingers. The contact raises goosebumps on her flesh. Encouraged, he hooks his thumbs into her waistband and fans his hands downwards, feeling the soft cotton slide against the taut muscles beneath it.   
  
She finally drops back to her stocking feet. Strands of hair are escaping the rubber band at the back of her head, curling against her flushed cheeks. Her flat belly is perfectly level with his groin, which is not at all flat. She coughs slightly, taking a half-step backwards.   
  
"Mulder," she says in the pedantic voice that drives him several kinds of crazy.   
  
He fills the space she has created, because it's what he does. "What?"   
  
"This is a terrible idea."   
  
"Possibly."   
  
"On a one-to-ten scale of recklessness, this is at least an eight."   
  
He reaches forward to open the top button of her thin sweater. "I'm willing to agree with that," he says. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I am loco en la cabeza." He opens another two buttons. "But then again," he muses, opening her sweater fully, "you haven't stopped me yet. What do you make of it all, Dr. Scully?"   
  
She runs her tongue thoughtfully over her top lip. "I postulate that one cannot account for all independent variables. Gravity, you know, is technically a theory." She shrugs and her sweater drops to the floor.   
  
Her back is lithe under his hands, and the clasp of her bra pops open like a Christmas cracker. They stumble past the couch and down the hall to her bedroom, where he finds that her Egyptian cotton sheets are not as soft as her skin.


End file.
